Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  He couldn’t believe it when Leah had dropped her bombshell. I’m sorry, darling, she’d whispered, clinging to him. Don’t be angry, it was nobody’s fault. Naturally, after that everything had changed, and Hannah, unfortunately, had suffered in the fallout—something Patrick had never intended to happen.

  He couldn’t imagine being a father. He’d never envied friends with children, never wondered when his turn would come. Hannah had hinted gently now and again—inevitable, maybe, when they were living together, and she’d been in her thirties by the time they’d become a couple—but Patrick had managed each time to postpone what he’d regarded as the inevitable. Someday, he’d said, when we’re both ready. When the time is right.

  He pulled in by the arrivals building. “Why don’t you go in,” he said, “and I’ll find a parking space. Won’t be long.” Ignoring, as he spoke, the faint echo of his identical words a year ago.

  He watched Leah walk toward the automatic doors. Her waist had begun to thicken—and didn’t her hips seem slightly wider? She’d also started to develop the tiniest suggestion of a double chin, and her ankles weren’t quite as slender as before. She was still beautiful, of course. He wondered what other changes were in store, what pregnancy would do to her body as the months went on.

  He found a parking space and unloaded the case he’d packed the previous night while Leah was in the bath. The thought occurred to him as he made his way back to the arrivals building that maybe he should have chosen another destination: Leah might not be too pleased if she ever discovered that she was following so closely in Hannah’s footsteps. But it had to be Paris for Valentine’s Day, didn’t it? Women expected Paris.

  And technically, of course, Hannah’s trip had been for her birthday rather than for Valentine’s Day; it was just a happy coincidence that the two dates were so close together. But Leah might not see it like that.

  The doors to the arrivals hall slid open, and he walked through. Too late to change anything now—and anyway, the past was in the past. He watched Leah’s expression as he approached her, smiling.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s go to Paris instead.”

  “Another slice?”

  Nora shook her head. “Not for me, thanks.” One slice of decidedly unexciting shop-bought quiche was more than enough. Her brother seemed to be in charge of the cooking this evening, worse luck. She picked up an oven-baked french fry—talk about ruining a potato—and slid her glass toward Adam. “I’ll have a top-up, though.” Eighteen euro she’d paid for the wine, and it was just about drinkable. Eight dollars would get you a decent Chablis in New York.

  Adam filled her glass. “So how’re you settling in? Anything you can’t find in the apartment?”

  “Just the Jacuzzi,” she told him. “And the pool. But I’m sure they’re there somewhere.”

  He grinned. “You’re not in Amerikay now. None of that posh rubbish in Clongarvin.”

  “Don’t I know it.” She smiled so they’d think she was joking. “I’d forgotten how much it rains here too.”

  “So what d’you think you’ll do?” Hannah asked. “Are you moving back to Ireland?”

  “Not sure yet,” Nora replied. Better be diplomatic, since they both still lived here and presumably liked it. “I’m considering my options.”

  It still amused her, how her brother and Hannah Robinson had hung around together for as long as she could remember and had never, as far as she knew—and she was pretty sure she’d know—had any kind of a romantic fling with each other, never even a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am night after a couple of drinks too many.

  And now here was Adam, moving in with Hannah right after her big relationship bust-up. Was he secretly hoping to be her rebound guy? Had the thought of getting together really never occurred to either of them? Weird. Definitely weird.

  And then there was the whole cupcake-shop business. It might work in New York—it did work in New York—but who opened a shop that sold nothing except cupcakes in a small Irish town in the middle of a serious recession? And Hannah baking everything herself, getting up in the middle of the night, according to Adam—was she nuts? Nobody could keep that up for long.

  She and Hannah had never hung around together at school. For one thing, they were a year apart—but even if the two of them had sat beside each other for five solid years of secondary school, Nora was willing to bet that they’d hardly have known each other’s last name at the end of it. They were programmed differently, your original chalk-and-cheese combo.

  Nora wondered idly what Hannah’s ex was like. She’d never met Patrick Dunne; their paths hadn’t crossed before she’d left for the States. Adam had said something about his being involved with the local newspaper, but she knew nothing else about the man, apart from the fact that he’d apparently done the dirty on Hannah.

  Of course, neither of their breakups, hers or Hannah’s, had been mentioned over the quiche. Nora certainly didn’t feel like talking about Jackson Paluzzi, and Hannah was probably just as anxious to put the newspaperman behind her.

  Nora looked without appetite at the cheese selection Adam was putting on the table—insipid white cheddar, blue that wasn’t half blue enough, Camembert that looked too firm to have been out of the fridge for very long—and thought with yearning of chunks of Monterey Jack scattered with toasted pecans, melting slices of Swiss draped over prosciutto, Neufchâtel spread thickly on a warm bagel, scamorza drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with black pepper.

  Hannah cut into the cheddar. “D’you see a big change in Clongarvin?”

  Nora pretended to consider. “I suppose so…yeah, quite a few changes.” Which, of course, was a lie—apart from the odd unfamiliar building and a scattering of boarded-up premises, the place was depressingly pretty much as she’d left it more than a decade ago. She remembered how impatient she’d felt then, how desperate she’d been to finish school and get on a plane—any plane—and leave behind the same old faces, the boringly familiar cafés and shops and narrow streets.

  And now she’d had enough of small talk with her brother’s friend. She emptied her glass and got to her feet. “Thanks a lot, you two—I guess my body clock is still screwed up. I’d better leave before I fall asleep on the table.”

  “No coffee?” Adam asked, and Nora, imagining the instant horror she’d probably be served, shook her head. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Drop by anytime,” Hannah told her, “now that you know the way.”

  “Yeah, I might just do that.” Both of them knowing quite well that she wouldn’t be dropping by. How ridiculous were social conventions?

  Adam walked her back to his apartment. The earlier rain had cleared, leaving the air damp and clean.

  “I was thinking today, I must look up some of the old gang,” Nora said as they skirted the puddles. “That’s if they’re still around.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Francine Kelly, or Jojo Fitzpatrick. Or Leah Bradshaw.”

  Adam shrugged. “Can’t say I remember any of them.”

  Nora grinned. “If Francine heard you—she fancied you like mad for ages.”

  “Did she? You might have told me. Any idea what you want to do otherwise?”

  “You mean a job?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t really need one, bro—the advantages of alimony.”

  “I know, but don’t you want something to keep you from being bored while you’re here?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Depends what’s available, I suppose.” In the States she’d worked behind the scenes in a radio station, and before that she’d divided her time between PR and various jobs with fashion magazines. She was adaptable, if not exactly qualified. “I get the impression work is fairly thin on the ground here right now.”

  “Depends what you’re willing to do,” Adam told her. “If you don’t set your sights too high, you’ll probably pick up something. Hannah was talking about taking on a part-timer in the shop.”
<
br />   “No thanks,” Nora said swiftly. “Not my scene.” She could think of few less appealing prospects than standing behind the counter in a cupcake shop. “I’d rather something a bit more…challenging.” Glamorous was what she meant, but he’d probably laugh.

  They reached the apartment block. Adam hugged her. “Night, sleep well.”

  “I intend to. Call me tomorrow.” She turned toward the door.

  “Hey,” he said, “want to come out for a drink with me and Hannah on Sunday? Can’t leave you all on your own on Valentine’s night.”

  She considered. Any excuse to strut her stuff was better than none, even if they’d be surrounded by loving couples all night. “Yeah, sure—why not? Gimme a call.”

  “And do me a favor,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Lose the Yankee accent.”

  She laughed. “I’ll do my best. See you.” She turned the key in the lock and went inside, checking her watch and realizing that she was in time for Grey’s Anatomy. Chances were she’d seen the episode before, but what the hell.

  Hannah weighed flour and sugar and put them into the bowl of the stand mixer. Get as much done as you can the night before, ease the pressure when you stumble, half asleep, into the kitchen at three in the morning.

  Once she woke up a bit though, once she got into the routine of mixing and chopping and stirring and icing, she had to admit that it wasn’t so terrible being up when the rest of the country was asleep. There was something peaceful about moving around the warm kitchen, radio playing softly so Adam wouldn’t hear it, surrounded by the scents of new sponge and vanilla and roasting nuts.

  Not that she wouldn’t choose to be tucked up in bed, given the option, of course, but someone had to produce the cupcakes for the shop—and until her fairy godmother appeared and waved a wand, that someone was going to be Hannah.

  The front door opened and closed, and Adam put his head around the kitchen door. “I’m back—and I’m off upstairs. I have stuff to do for the morning, so see you when I see you.”

  “Okay. By the way, I should warn you that my mother has her heart set on you marrying me—now that we’re living together and all.”

  He considered. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint Geraldine—we’ll discuss it on Sunday night, when we’re painting the town red.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I told you, count me out. I have work on Monday.”

  “We’ll see. I can still have you home by ten.” He vanished, and a few minutes later Hannah heard Neil Young’s voice drifting faintly downward.

  She opened the fridge and took out butter and eggs and left them on the worktop. She filled the cups of four muffin trays with pink paper liners decorated with red and white hearts. She refused to dwell on the fact that Sunday was Valentine’s Day, and that whichever customers bought one or more of her special sweetheart cupcakes tomorrow (strawberry center, white chocolate icing, sugar-paste heart on top) would in all likelihood be spending Valentine’s Day with someone they loved, and who loved them back.

  She especially didn’t think about last year’s Valentine’s Day or the man she’d spent it with, didn’t torture herself thinking about how he might spend the day this year. She didn’t dwell on the breakfast of warm croissants and chocolat chaud in bed last year, the film in the darkened French cinema that evening, the shared bath afterward. No, not for a second did any of that cross her mind.

  And while she wasn’t recalling any of that, Neil Young was telling her that only love could break her heart. What, he asked, if her world should fall apart?

  She tipped what was left of Nora’s wine into her glass and concentrated on how overly made-up Adam’s sister had been, how bored she’d seemed all evening, how ridiculous her American accent had sounded. How relieved Hannah had been when she’d left.

  Much safer to keep on thinking about Nora, as she assembled strawberries and chocolate chunks and little pink hearts in bowls on the counter.

  And when she’d finally made all the preparations she could, she took off her apron and filled the kettle for her hot-water bottle. Then she went into the sitting room and sat on the floor beside Kirby, who was slumped in his usual spot beside the radiator, his head resting on his paws. She bent and put her arms around his warm neck and buried her face in his smooth black coat, and listened to the soft thump of his tail on the carpet.

  “Quiet tonight,” Adam said. “Thought you’d be busier on Valentine’s Night.”

  The barman shook his head. “All the loving couples are out to dinner,” he said. “Be in later, I’d say.” He tilted his head in the direction of the musicians. “The band is here special tonight. Normally they only play Saturdays.”

  “Is that so? I hadn’t noticed,” Adam replied, pocketing his change and turning his attention to the female musician. Her hair was completely hidden, swathed in some kind of black turban. Below it she wore a black turtleneck sweater and a pair of black tailored trousers over shiny black ankle boots. Her legs were thin, her knees pressed together. Her feet were slightly parted, toes turned inward.

  She made eye contact with nobody, as far as Adam could see from where he sat, apart from the keyboard player, who stood more or less in her line of vision. She didn’t smile between numbers. Occasionally she pushed her small, round glasses farther up her nose. During the livelier tunes, one of her feet tapped along sporadically. Her back was hunched a little. Now and again a frown creased the skin between her eyes.

  She was his own age, or close enough. As far as he could make out, she wore no rings—did musicians take rings off before they played? Her fingers flew over the keys of her clarinet. The backs of her hands might be freckled—the pale tone of her skin suggested freckles—but from this distance, and in this light, it was hard to be sure.

  Adam couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she fascinated him. She didn’t remotely resemble any of his previous girlfriends. There was nothing he could put a finger on, nothing charming about her. Nothing he could point to and say—

  “Hey.”

  He turned to see Nora walking toward him. “There you are. What’ll you have?”

  “I might chance a vodka martini, if they can manage it.” She glanced around. “No Hannah?”

  Adam shook his head. “Couldn’t persuade her. Work tomorrow—but I think it’s really that she’s still cut up about the ex.”

  Nora shrugged. “She needs to get back in the saddle—no point in moping around.” She scanned the room. “Not a bad little place. About time Clongarvin got a wine bar. Let’s grab a couch while we can.” Her gaze fell on the musicians in the corner. “Get the secret agent with the clarinet,” she said.

  Hannah lay back, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scented, steamy air. From the attic above her came the faint, comforting sound of water gurgling through pipes as the tank refilled. In her bedroom next door, Seal sang soulfully of love and loss. She lifted a hand languidly and watched its coat of bubbles sliding slowly from her skin.

  This had become the new high point of her week, this hour or so of pampering she allowed herself on a Saturday or Sunday night. A bath as hot as she could bear it, piled with foam. A face mask, a hair-conditioning treatment. No phone, no book, the only light a soft, flickering glow from two fat, white candles that sat by the taps.

  Thoughts drifted lazily into her head as she lay there—and annoyingly, despite her best efforts, a lot of those thoughts still concerned Patrick Dunne.

  Almost six weeks after his departure, and the loneliness and regret hadn’t gone away. But the pain was slowly dulling, her tears less frequent these days, and the world continued to turn. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since that first encounter, the day she’d opened the shop—which was hardly surprising, given that most of her waking hours now were spent stuck behind the counter.

  Business had been brisker than usual yesterday, and the sweetheart cupcakes had sold well. She’d thought of her profits and smiled determinedly at the customers, refusing to feel an ounce
of self-pity, refusing to dwell on the fact that nobody would be buying her any kind of Valentine gift this year.

  And now the bathwater was beginning to cool, so it was time to rinse off her masks, put on pajamas, and sit in front of the fire that Adam had lit earlier until her hair dried. She’d watch an episode of his box set of The Office, share a bag of Aged White Cheddar Kettle Chips with Kirby, and be in bed by half past nine—and probably asleep minutes later.

  Not exactly the Valentine’s night of her dreams, but not the worst in the world either.

  Alice bundled the envelopes together and brought them into the kitchen. Two for Tom, the gas bill and a bank statement. Three for her—a Visa bill, a postcard from Sheila Barrett, home from the Canaries for the past week, and one with a catering-company logo in the top corner that she vaguely recognized.

  She laid the envelopes on the table before fishing Tom’s boiled egg out of the simmering water and setting it into one of the yellow pottery eggcups with chicken feet that Ellen had given them years ago as an anniversary present.

  She put the butter dish into the microwave and cut two slices of brown bread. She dropped three tea bags into the teapot, waited for the kettle to click off, and made the tea. She took marmalade and milk from the fridge and went to the kitchen door and called “Tom?”

  She sat at the table and turned the postcard over. “Having a lovely time,” Sheila had written. “Very warm. Bit of a trek to the beach, so we’re staying put by the pool. See you soon.” The picture was of a platter of seafood on a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.

  She opened the envelope from the catering company. Its director turned out to be a woman she knew slightly from meetings of local businesswomen that took place each month, which Alice attended sporadically. She was invited to purchase tickets to a dinner-dance that was being organized to raise funds for a dialysis machine for Clongarvin’s hospital. “I’m sure you’ll want to support this very worthy cause,” the director had written, “and if you can rally your friends, too, so much the better.” The event was scheduled for a date in late March and would be held in a local hotel. “Sponsorship is generously being provided by various local businesses, which means that all proceeds on the night will go directly toward the cost of this vital machine.” The letter went on to mention a champagne reception before the meal and spot prizes throughout the evening.